


Amends

by Arabwel



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: And Natasha is deadly, And is not a Disney Princess, Angst, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Bad Communication, Consent Issues, Crack, Frigga is a creeper, Loki watches reality TV, M/M, Mind Control, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Not Thor: The Dark World Compliant, Prague, Self Confidence Issues, Sif is awesome, asgardian barbie death squads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 03:31:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1729538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/pseuds/Arabwel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The grimoire in his hands grows heavy, the power slowly seeping back into the pages; Loki sets it aside and walks up to the circle, looking Barton in the eye. “I have need of you,” he says softly.  </p><p>And so begins the Noble Hawkeye's guest to restore the Son of Coul to life. But the path of true love - nor redemption - never did run smooth. </p><p>(aka: the most late entry to a RBB in history of RBBs)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johanirae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johanirae/gifts).



> So um yeah I wrote this for the 2012 Marvel Reverse Big Bang but there were reasons why it did not actually get posted until now. With [ amazing art by Johanirae. Please note that this fic includes consent issues due to mind control; further clarification in the notes at the bottom](http://johanirae.livejournal.com/472422.html)
> 
> Now with 110% less wonky italics!

So it starts like this: Clint has these dreams, these nightmares. About a lot of shit, and recently Loki and the mind-control bullshit has been the biggest attraction. He dreams of falling, falling - keeps jerking awake in a way that makes him happy Tasha isn’t in the room because there’s only so many times they can fuck each other up in that state.

He jerks awake and he’s still falling and he can’t fucking breathe.

It’s not water or vacuum and as he struggles and gasps he hates knowing what that feels like - no this is like falling through something almost solid, like being enveloped in Jell-O while in freefall.

When he lands it is a soft thud and not a splatter, and he gasps for breath, sitting up. For a moment he thinks he’s just woken from another dream, but then Clint sees Loki.

_Oh God, let this be a dream!_

Loki’s not smirking like a madman; the hungry, mad echo of what he’s seen is not there. Instead, the Norse god looks almost serene - an expression Clint has never seen before, something he had thought impossible on that cruel and haughty face. It’s distracting, but not distracting enough to keep him from taking stock of his surroundings and swallowing hard.

Clint is sitting in the middle of a fucking magic circle, the kind you’re supposed to see only in horror movies. But, there’s squiggles - and that’s a technical term - that remind him of the Bifrost landing site mixed in, and what’s beyond the pentagram sure ain’t Kansas, Toto.

Pale purple walls and white arches sparkle under eerie light from crystal chandeliers; there are books everywhere, on the floor, tossed aside haphazardly and piled one upon another. Old, musty, very similar to the one Loki is cradling in his hands like a precious child.

It all feels so fucking unreal, Clint is pretty certain this is not a dream. Especially since he’s not naked.

Loki looks at him, a small smile on his face and fuck, that smile scares the shit out of Clint in a way the slasher smirk could not. “Clint Barton;” Loki says, his voice soft, “I have something to ask of you.”

*****************

It’s not like Loki makes a habit of summoning beautiful archers with glorious hearts into his chambers. Or summoning people, full stop. He'd much rather be getting out of here, out of this not-exile that is a glorified version of being sent to his room without supper, but one does what one can.

And when one’s only way out is to make amends....

He hasn’t released the circle yet. It is not a binding, merely a - precaution. The hawk doesn’t have a bow but Loki holds no illusion to just how deadly the man is, what that uniform hides. Although he knows he would triumph, he would rather not ask for a boon after an altercation. 

Loki watches as the archer gathers himself into a wary crouch, eyes still wide and alert; there is anger in the lines of his body, a wariness - and Loki knows this is why Clint Barton is so dangerous: he is a patient man.

The grimoire in his hands grows heavy, the power slowly seeping back into the pages; Loki sets it aside and walks up to the circle, looking Barton in the eye. “I have need of you,” he says softly. 

****

Clint is pretty sure that when his worst nightmare is coming true; this should not be happening. Loki should not be acting like this is ordinary, as if it is perfectly okay to grab someone who you already mind-raped and made complicit in betrayal and murder. Yeah, Clint takes more issue with the first part than the second. He’s been a killer for hire for a long time but the thing is, he’s always stayed bought till his contract ran out.

_He refuses to think about Phil_

He is still in his circle, wearing his uniform and some of his weapons - his hand clenches in the air, missing his bow - and he wants to put an arrow - knife - thumb - through Loki’s eye now more than ever. He isn’t pacing, he is conserving his strength and tries not to fidget under Loki’s gaze. it is harder than it should be, it’s really fucking hard to not to do the equivalent of sit-and-beg routine; there’s something left here, something residual that Tasha hasn’t beaten out of him - that has to be why he is starting to feel a small tendril of worry for Loki.

So he listens, and incredulity sets in. Because Loki appears to have called him here, into magical La-La land, to _make amends._ Which is the single most fucked up thing he’s ever heard, so that’s what he tells Loki.

From there on, it goes downhill. There is shouting, raving, and yeah, bashing into an energy barrier that feels like it burns but leaves no mark on his skin while Loki quite calmly explains his need to make amends and demonstrates his inability to tell a lie.

The magical strings across his lips that halt all untrue words should be reassuring. Except, Clint is friends with Tasha who could make you believe the sky is green and your mom a chicken without a single lie passing her lips.

“You killed Phil,” Clint snarls, wishing he had bars to rattle. “What the fuck makes you think I would ever forgive you?”

Loki blinks. “I did not kill the Son of Coul. He is still amongst the living.”

Clint is falling again.

**

Once the archer is revived again, Loki lowers the barrier. To prove that he speaks the truth is difficult and painful, but it must be done. He hears Barton murmur something about “Liar, Liar” and makes a note to investigate. Because it is not a surprise to anyone that Loki has a Thing for Midgardian pop culture and is also working on a way to get Netflix in Asgard.

He blames Barton, of course. The imperfect little minion.

In the end they sit down on the table of white marble and let it stain with wine as they drink for bitter words and actions, memories and maybes.

**

Last thing Clint wants is to understand Loki. But to have the hope, the possibility that - _ohgodphilisalivephilphilphil_ his lover is alive out there, somewhere - he knows that even if it were obvious that this is a trick, a game, nothing but a ruse the faintest possibility that Phil could be alive and out there is enough to make him - compromised.

This is why men like him should never love.

Hearing Loki speak of his need for amends, the words bitter and cold in the chambers that seem to be perpetually lukewarm is stirring something deep within Clint. It’s not vestigial control, but it’s something he can almost call sympathy. Because the thing is, he gets this. He understands brainwashing; he understands how fucking badly a man - _god_ \- can be broken.

Hearing Loki speak of falling through an eternity and into the hands of Thanos? Yeah, it’s giving him the kind of a groundwork where the urge to stab Loki in the face is receding and, he thinks, maybe he can forgive someday. Maybe. Because Loki is still a gigantic dick and fuck, his brain is not going to right places with that.

_He’s always had loose morals and a disinclination to commit; when his mind is awash with blue and his loyalty absolute, it seems like love is just not enough to say no._

He can forgive others what brainwashing, what mind-rape has done to them - exhibit A) Natasha, exhibit B) Winter Soldier - but he knows he can’t forgive himself. Not when he knows deep inside just how much of a mess he is.

He knows he would walk through Hell and back for Phil, even with the growing knowledge that he will never have back what he’s lost. But that doesn’t matter, he doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that _Phil is alive._

And they have no fucking clue where he is.

***

Speaking the truth like this is - painful, but not a torment. Loki finds it difficult, to not to use nothing but the truth to twist because he is not slipping in a barbed knife here. He is - he is seeking the amends he wants to make.

Because amends are the only thing that will free him, he tells himself. And the silver stitches do not bind the words in his head.

“You spoke of him,” he says softly, “Of the Son of Coul. In the same breath as you cautioned me of the Black Widow’s wiles, you cautioned me against the resilience and fortitude of your lover. “

Barton’s eyes darken with pain and, Loki thinks, he feels sorrow.

“I underestimated the Widow,” and there is bitterness in Loki’s words, a regret - a mistake he’d made in his arrogance he vows to never repeat. One day - “And I had no intention of making that mistake again.”

“So you stabbed him.” Barton’s voice is flat, an empty echo of pain in his eyes. There is a tension to him, tension that shows in his tight hold of the goblet that would shatter were it not of Asgardian make.

“Yes. The scepter is no mere weapon of metal.” It is hard, to explain concepts of _seid_ and alien craft to a Midgardian, but he does his best. “The injury was to incapacitate. To keep him docile till the time would come.” The time of his triumph, when his Hawk would soar from his arm and claim his lover anew as his prize... The triumph that was not to be.

“The medics called it. He was dead. You pierced his lungs and damaged his heart.”

“Your one-eyed leader called it,” and Loki cannot keep the venom out of his voice. “And the scepter’s power would not slay him.”

******

Fury is a lying liar who lies. Clint can get on board with that. He can get on board with injury to incapacitate - there’s a scar on his leg, another on Natasha’s thigh - and he can get on board with magical shit that means running Phil through was the only way to _make sure_ he’d stay down because hello, magical shit.

He doesn’t know if he believes this - it is almost too good to be true, just a dream or maybe this is just another show of insanity from Loki complete with self-mutilation in the form of those curse-stitches, but if that is the case he knows better than to not to do what the crazy superpowered dude tells him. He still sometimes isn’t sure if Steve counts as crazy. Or just Steve.

Clint takes another sip of the wine - it’s nothing like any wine he’s ever drank but it’s the only way he can describe it; strong and heady and he knows planning an op - because this is what this has become - when drunk on alien alcohol is horribly, horribly stupid. Even Loki appears - not tipsy, no, but slightly relaxed in a way that suits him.

He remembers Loki’s mania and just how fucked up the guy is; he can remember the spill-over from the mindlink, the strange attunement. And he thinks, he gets it. Fuck, he gets it - he knows he got it, all the daddy issues, all the fucking brother issues when shit went down in the first place and some part of him feels a lot more than a twinge of sympathy and is - almost glad that Loki is looking for peace.

“You need rest,” Loki speaks up and Clint doesn’t bother denying it. “I should send you back.”

“Yeah about that,” Clint says. “How the hell did you bring me here?”

Loki smiles sadly. “My _seid_ called onto the one I have wronged the most grievously. This is how I have summoned you and this is how I should be able to send you back:”

“ _Should?!_ ”

*******************************

Clint wakes up in his own bed with a pounding headache and thinks, for a moment, that was the most fucked up dream in the history of fucked up dreams. He even feels like he’s fallen hard on his ass and then gone drinking with a Norse deity, which he has unfortunately too much experience on...

_~Not a dream, archer~_

Clint sits up, any vestige of sleep immediately gone. Oh god no Loki is in his head again... No. Not in his head. This was...

He lifts his hand and there it is, a small ring on his ear, through the hole he thought had healed up years ago - silver, except not, and bespelled to let him hear Loki...

His fingers work frantically, tugging it off with a short stab of pain. His ear feels swollen and crusty, and the ring lies there on his palm; the proof that somehow he got yanked from his post-mission flop on the couch to Asgard and he’s now back to...

He’s back to find Phil.

Clint closes his eyes against the tears that threaten to spill. God. Phil was alive, had to be alive, out there somewhere -

He remembers Loki’s caution. The scepter would have halted the damage from killing Phil, but it would not prevent further damage. If something happened in the med bay, if something happened afterwards, if Fury...

Clint shakes his head, angry: Fury is an asshole who lied to them all. He cannot discount the possibility that when Phil would not die, when he entered what Loki had called some kind of a magical healing stasis, that this was a threat.

_Were your leader to cut his throat where he lies, the scepter could do nothing._

Find Phil. Get the scepter back into Loki’s hands for him to finish what he had started.

He’s not stupid. He knows it is blatantly obvious that this could very well be just a simple ruse, playing on his feelings to get Loki back into a position of power, Phil nothing but an incidental carrot.

That’s why he will find Phil first.

And, he thinks as he picks up the earring from where it fell and slides it back in place, he will not remember Loki’s words.

_He was to be your reward, Hawkeye._

****

Natasha is in Burkina Faso and for that, Clint is eternally grateful. He knows he could not hide this from her. He’s never been able to hide anything from her, which he knows makes him a pretty shit spy all in all but fuck, she’s Natasha.

The others, his new team. They don’t know him that well yet, think he is a brooding strong silent type and he knows Phil will laugh himself sick when he does find out. When. Not if.

Clint knows they don’t trust him yet - and it makes him want to giggle in a rather lunatic manner when he admits that it’s not the kind of lack of trust where they think he’s still Loki’s puppet or working some hidden agenda, but it’s the kind lack of trust where they simply put have not worked with him long enough, have not seen him in action often enough, to believe he can pull his own weight and open up about all the fucked up, stupid shit they all have been through.

Yeah, he’s seen the dossiers but it’s not the same. And yeah, they’ve seen him in the range, know he says he never misses but they do not believe it - not yet. He knows it will eventually build up to that point, or could if...

Well, all that matters is that he can’t flat out ask Stark to hack into SHIELD records to look for Phil. He has to do this the old fashioned way and he is nothing but resourceful.

He doesn’t think about the fact that he’d been nearly able to bring the Helicarrier down.

*****************************************************************************

“Fury is a lying liar who lies!”

Stark’s unexpected proclamation jolts Clint away from his breakfast omelet; that had been the exact thing he’d been thinking earlier, has he truly been so lucky that -

“Phil’s alive.”

And with those two words the Avengers, still sans Natasha, burst into a cacophony of noise, all except Clint who cannot believe his luck, cannot believe that he’s hearing this from Stark, too - he wonders for a moment if he will find out Phil is alive, okay, healing well somewhere and all of Loki’s words are lies after all.

There is a warm hand on his shoulder and Captain America’s voice, full of concern. “Clint?”

Clint realizes that his knuckles are white around his fork and he is trembling, not just his hands, but his entire body is wracked with small, almost imperceptible tremors except he is surrounded by people who are nothing but the best.

“Phil.” Clint croaks, and his mouth is so dry, as if he’d spent the past thirty hours in a nest in a desert waiting for a shot. But there is no dust in his nose and he inhales deeply, closing his eyes.

Stark is still talking to Banner, something about Jarvis and emergency protocols and containment, and Steve’s hand on his shoulder is warm and comforting, something of a bubble forming around the two of them as Phil’s hero speaks to him softly.

“I know you two were... close,” Steve doesn’t stumble over his words, but he hesitates a little: It’s not condemnation or discomfort, it’s something indefinable and Clint closes his eyes and doesn’t speak, emotion swelling in his chest until he can’t breathe. He has no idea how Steve knows, has no idea why he’s saying this, trying to comfort Clint now that there is hope again, when his nightmare-dreams have become real.

What happens is that the awkward moment with Steve passes, and Stark launches into a more detailed explanation than is necessary, but the gist of it now that Clint can pay attention is that Jarvis, while checking up on what kind of Hulk-proof plans SHIELD was making, discovered Phil. Who was in the kind of state of suspended animation except not quite, not dying but no healing either that Loki had described - not that Stark was privy to that little detail - and under heavy supervision.

“Just in case Loki left behind a bunch of facehuggers or something,” Stark says and there’s a pause when the reference is explained to Steve and Thor.

Clint is keeping an eye on Thor, wondering. Will Loki’s handiwork be plain for him to see? Or is Thor’s ignorance of Loki’s _seid_ as complete as the god had implied?

But Thor says nothing about the scepter, admits he does not know of the mysterious ways of his brother enough to say what it is that is going on with Phil and somehow, that fills Clint with relief. Because he does know and this means - it means something. He cannot quite grasp it but the knowledge is there.

There is a plan. And he _hates_ it.

***************************************************************************************

An hour later Clint is in his quarters, sliding the earring on. Immediately he’s awash with a feeling of irritation and anticipation, Loki’s hunger for news and dislike of his decision to remove the earring palpable. And yet, it is nothing like the feedback he’d felt under the Tesseract and that, he is grateful.

_Have you news, archer?_

_Stark found Phil, or at least thinks so. Steve’s the one going in to see if it really is him. They know I am under too much surveillance while on SHIELD property to be able to make it undetected._

_I am sure the Son of Coul would appreciate the effort his hero is putting into this,_ Loki’s mental voice is wry and Clint grimaces. Yeah, that was one more thing he’d told Loki while under the influence, about Captain America and Phil’s conviction for heroes - and heroics. And that bit about how Phil had watched over Steve while he slept in a way that would have made Clint really fucking jealous had it been anyone but Captain fucking America.

 _Yeah,_ Clint admits reluctantly. _Maybe Cap gets to repay him the favor._

He is awash with the echo of Loki’s amusement, and it’s kind of infectious He finds himself smiling, because yeah Phil will have an apoplexy if... when he wakes up and finds out it is Steve who will bluster his way into the containment and play the role of Prince Charming.

Perhaps that’s for the best, a little voice inside his head that is not Loki, but something older and stronger whispers. Because Steve is so fucking perfect, so fucking good, he’s someone Phil deserves to be with. Because after all this Phil will understand... just how much he is worth, how he shouldn’t settle for someone like Clint and he won’t.

****************************************************************************************

Loki believes the human expression _you gotta be kidding me_ is apt at this point; the emotional feedback he is getting from Barton disturbs him, in more ways than one. Cannot the archer see his own worth, cannot see how special he is, to have been chosen by Loki?

And now the little idiot thinks that his beloved would desert him after he’s about to embark on an epic quest to bring his lover back to health? Does he really think so little of himself, or of the Son of Coul?

Loki frowns; he had not seen this when Barton was under his thrall; there had been a surety to the man then, something he was lacking now and it is as puzzling as it is infuriating. This will not do if he is to regain the scepter and - no, this will not do.

He is Loki, he is a god amongst these mortals, and he is too old for this shit. So he plots, because that is what Loki does, just ask anyone, and therefore he has a plan in place even before Barton has finished conveying his wish that Captain America will just get on with it and find the Son of Coul.

*******************************************************************************************

Natasha returns before Steve can find Phil and for that, Clint is grateful. Because she should be here, she should know because he knows just how much it means to her, that Coulson trusted her.

And because she scares the shit out of everyone, Fury included, when she gets _that_ look on her face.

Fury is a lying liar who lies but he is also brutally honest, making no apologies to his choice to lie to pull them together, to hide Phil and his what the fuck is going on state from the Avengers, for the _fucking cards._

“You will be sorry when he wakes up,” Clint snorts, the words dry in his mouth but it is the truth.

Fury’s one-eyed gaze is level but there is no verbal reprimand.

Clint hates to admit but the next few minutes are hazy, his situational awareness just - gone and he knows Phil would not be happy but oh god then he is _right there..._

He's falling inside his own head, air rushing out of his lungs in a desperate whisper of "Phil" and then he's standing next to the bed where Phil lies, so pale and so fucking fragile.

He has stopped bleeding; but there’s still blood in his veins, still a heartbeat. He should not be able to breathe, and yet there’s the faintest rise and fall of his chest. The wounds still gape, unhealed, and it’s as if he’s caught on the very cusp of death, his soul already gone - only, not.

Clint is so fucking thankful Phil’s eyes are closed.

The others eventually leave them alone; Clint is still holding onto Phil’s lifeless hand, still warm under his fingers as he fights to not to grip hard enough to break bones.

“You will be okay,” he whispers, mindful of the cameras and microphones and other sensors pointed at the room. “We’ll fix this. Somehow.”

And if by we he means himself and Loki as opposed to the Avengers, well, that is another thing.

******************************************************************************************

Loki plots, because he is Loki.

******************************************************************************************

“So whatever happened to the glowstick?” Stark asks when they get back to the Avengers tower.

“Director Fury deemed it prudent to send it to Asgard along with the Tesseract. The discord the scepter sowed amongst the Avengers appeared to be entirely independent of Loki’s presence.” Jarvis’ voice is calm and collected as usual as the AI reiterates information gleaned from the SHIELD archives.

Clint’s face doesn’t fall despite how hard his insides clench. Asgard is far, far from his reach, even with Loki’s help. The hope he’s felt is slowly and steadily crushing into a black void of despair, and the next few minutes when the Avengers decide they need to rest on this are an eternity of torment.

His vision swims when he enters his rooms and fumbles for the earring.

 _You see the Son of Coul lives,_ Loki’s voice comes in his head.

_Yes._

_What of my Scepter?_

_Your Daddy dearest has it locked up in Asgard._

_… Fuck._

Clint can hear the punctuation, almost, and the crude earth profanity on Loki’s lips makes him bark out a short, desperate laugh. There is no way he can make it to Asgard, not without telling everyone, telling Thor what he needs the Scepter for and...

 _Do not doubt me, Archer,_ Loki’s voice chides him and he can feel the chastisement tinged with arrogance but not anger. It’s a strange, almost familiar feeling. _Did I not bring you here once already?_

 _Won’t help me if I land in your cell again,_ Clint replies. _If it can hold you in..._

 _It is meant to hold a god,_ Loki replies loftily. _Not a mouse._

_Hey!_

 

****************************************************************************************

That night, the earring firmly set aside, Clint dreams again.

_There is a clarity to his thoughts, a sharp purpose. It is invigorating, it’s unlike anything he’s ever felt. There is no doubt, no fear, simply purpose. He knows his next target; the shifting shades of gray have become more solid, more defined. With S.H.I.E.L.D. there was doubt, questions, feelings he could not shake. Now, this? This is different._

_He wishes Phil could see him now. But Phil is still with SHIELD. Clint knows he may have to go against his lover and the idea fills him with regret, but it does not sway his purpose._

_There is an itch under his skin, an itch he is familiar with. Restless energy before a mission, a slow build-up of adrenaline that would make a lesser man fidget, tap his foot. But Clint remains still, remains centered. If Phil was here... but he is not._

_He is not with SHIELD any more. He’s not with his handler, his partner._

_Clint tilts his head, eyes seeking Loki. The god is reclining in a chair that looks out of place in the base, a careless lounge his trained eye can tell is far from so._

_He sees the impatient tap of fingers on Loki’s thigh and comes to a decision._

_It takes only a moment to check with the now-ex-HYDRA goon that quarters have been prepared for Loki; It was not specified and Clint is pretty sure not required, but he is nothing but thorough in anticipating what the boss needs._

_Purpose in his mind, he walks up to the throne and leans down to whisper a few short words._

_Less than five minutes later he’s on his knees, rough concrete scraping through fabric as he traces his hands along Loki’s strong thighs. His lips burn with cold, an alien taste lingering on his mouth as his fingers struggle with unfamiliar fastenings, pushing aside silky-strong fabric._

_Loki is silent but breathing hard, hands resting on the armrests of yet another regal throne like chair as he spreads his legs a little wider, allowing Clint to lean in and inhale deeply of the smell of musk and arousal, subtly alien but still familiar enough to send a jolt of heat through him, blood rushing down._

_He’s not sure what to expect but a cock is a cock and when his lips wrap around Loki, almost experimentally, he’s pleased to hear the god hiss and curls his fingers. He’s always loved sucking cock and now there’s an extra dimension to it, the knowledge that this is right, nothing could be more right as he relaxes his throat and slides down, choking on a moan. He’s hard, the zipper of his pants pressing down on his dick, and he fights the urge to slide a hand down, to touch himself. Not yet._

_The itch under his skin is gone; the adrenaline is drenched in hazy lust as he brings Loki to orgasm, swallowing the bitter seed greedily; It dissipates entirely when he comes without a touch on his cock, Loki’s long fingers carding through his hair._

Clint wakes up hard, guilt spilling over him as he comes in his own hands.

He does not cry.

_Does not._

****************************************************************************************

Clint prepares for this like any other op. Intel, Equipment, contingency plans are all coming together and he finds himself wishing Phil was here because as competent as he is, he misses the steadiness of his partner in ways he had not thought possible.

Loki is confident that his knowledge of the Asgardian vaults is still accurate and based on Clint’s perception of the whole lot, it seems like a sure enough bet. (Of course he has back up plans.)

Asgardians eschew ranged combat for melee, and for that Clint is grateful - to a degree anyway. He knows he won’t have to dodge phasers, but if it comes down to a fight he’ll be going against an opponent, or opponents plural, with superhuman strength and speed and endurance. But the bow is not the only medieval weapon he is highly skilled with, and it is surprisingly easy to acquire a sword to accompany his knives, courtesy of Wade. The Swordsman trained him well, and he knows he still has the skills to wield the katana with the same precision as his arrows.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Wade asks through his mask, head tilted to the side.

“Yeah,” Clint says with conviction he doesn’t really feel.

“You’re lying but that’s okay, this is just a fanfic that’s been jossed already.”

And with that cryptic statement Wade takes off, leaping off the roof to slide along the wall and Clint sighs. Fucking weirdo.

Impatience thrums under his skin but he knows they have only one shot at this, only one chance and they can’t blow it. He needs to be patient, as much as it gnaws him.

But the time comes, and Clint is ready.

****************************************************************************************

Summoning Barton to his presence is easier this time, but it is still draining. Loki sets the grimoire aside and reaches a hand out to help the archer up. This time there is no containment circle, and the warrior has brought his weapons along.

The bow is familiar, the same weapon Barton wielded when he’d fought for Loki; the sword is new, and although he knew of it, it is still a surprise to see the elegant blade strapped on the archer’s back.

Something must show on his face; Barton levels a look at him. “I trained with the sword before I trained with the bow.” his voice is flat, and Loki can tell there are memories there, memories, he thinks, might just match his own in some ways.

_Never again will he be so mocked!_

“Show me,” he says instead, knives appearing in his hands.

Barton wastes no time, drawing his blade and attacking, and for a moment Loki thinks this may have been a mistake - if the archer’s rage at him is greater than his desire to have his lover brought back... but the thought is fleeting, lost in the flash of steel.

Barton does not have the strength to match him but he has the skill, devious and cunning and Loki realizes, he himself has rarely fought an opponent who is skilled yet weaker; he is reminded uncomfortably of the fights between himself and Thor, of the Warriors Three and he does not falter. 

It takes him scant minutes to disarm Barton, to slam the archer into a wall with a blade to his throat. They’re both breathing harshly, bodies pressed together and for a moment Loki’s mind flashes back to the pleasures they shared when the hawk was his to command. But no - he cannot go there, not when this is to regain Barton’s lover.

Blue eyes meet his with burning emotion, rage and something more. Loki smiles.

****************************************************************************************

Clint doesn’t struggle; the blade is too close to his throat for that. He’s panting hard, body rigid, a blinding anger mixed with desperation coursing through his veins and thrumming through his ears. Loki is so close, too close, and a part of him wants to just let go, stop struggling, close his eyes and inhale the now-familiar alien scent that brings back memories that fill him with shame.

He will not rut against Loki like some - he will not.

“You’re more than ready, Hawkeye,” Loki purrs but does not relinquish his hold. “My father’s guards will be no match to you.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Clint tries to keep his voice even as Loki pulls back. he inhales deeply, trying to not to gulp the air like a fish out of water except that fish would be dying and not, you know, breathing so that’s something he definitely should not be thinking as he waits for his heart rate to lower.

He closes his eyes and breathes in and out, deep, even breaths. He can do this. The brief burst of adrenaline and exertion hasn’t brought him down from top form, and he has faith in himself. Clint knows he is good, and he knows he is good enough to do this.

 _Good enough to steal a magical scepter from the king of the gods_ , some part of his mind is noting hysterically. He’s sliding a fucking magical charm over his wrist, to keep him from being seen by the security system. And when he says security system, he means Heimdall.

How is this his life?

And, because they think Loki is some kind of a deranged Disney princess, his way out of here is a fucking window on the side of a tower. It’s bespelled to stop any Asgardian or Jotun - but not animals. Clint thinks that when they expected songbirds to redeem Loki as opposed to piss him off by waking him at ass o’clock in the morning, they hadn’t expected a talking monkey with pointy sticks sneaking out.

Well, when he says sneaking out, he means climbing along a near-sheer stone wall to get away from the tower and to the castle proper.

It’s dangerous, Clint’s hands and feet scrabbling for purchase. He is glad for his arrows and grapples, for the skills that allow him to sneak around like a fucking ninja.

Loki’s directions are precise and it doesn’t take him long to get where he needs to be. 42.3 meters up this wall, diagonal cut across a rooftop, swing his way over there and then descend 34.1 meters to a ledge that will get him all the way to the other side, a drop to a window.

As he picks the lock, he stifles a giggle. The alien measurements are throwing him off, just a little. He supposes he just has to be glad the geometry is still Euclidean.

Trying to calculate shots when reality refuses to co-operate is a bitch. Not that he has any experience or anything. But with the Avengers, he thinks as he slinks along the corridor - 28.2 meters to the curtains and the entrance to a servants’ passage - he is not going to assume rules are the same any more. Besides there was that one time with Dr. Strange and the mongoose...

Clint’s senses are sharp and alert despite his internal monologue; an air current passes his face and he freezes. Someone else is in the corridor.

Quickly, he moves and within moments he’s wedged near the ceiling, feet and back bracing him in the shadows. The corridor is narrow but tall, obviously taking into account the Asgardian penchant for height but here, he’d have good four feet between him and the top of Thor’s head so he is certain he will go undetected. Especially in the dim light that comes from the floor, not the ceiling.

His thighs burn with the strain but he knows he can spend hours like this, can spring into action just as easily as he could standing on the ground. He waits, patiently, heartbeat steady in his ears as the soft footsteps come closer, closer...

It does not take long for the servants to pass him, and Clint relaxes minutely. Based on Loki’s intel, he thinks he knows where they are going. It’s not the time they’re supposed to be here, but from the hurry in their footsteps, Clint thinks they’re running late. He has to account to that variable, he thinks, as he lands on his feet as silent as a cat.

He doesn’t fail to notice that the servants looked like they could be Swedish and Egyptian bikini models turned pro wrestler.

********

Because things never go as easily as they should, Heimdall notices the blind spot in his vision and decides something must be done. So, it’s up to Lady Sif and the Warriors Three to figure out what kind of mischief is being managed in Odin’s vault.

They come prepared for Jotun, for Loki unleashed, for monsters and foul beasts. They do not, in fact, expect a lone warrior clinging at the edge of the ceiling, like a spider on its web.

“Halt, foul thief!” Sif calls out, drawing her blade as she assesses the man. A man it is, not a Jotun or a dwarf despite his short stature; small and compact, with weapons and garb she would call Midgardian were it impossible. Upon his back, she immediately recognizes his spoils, the accursed scepter of Discord.

The scepter, the bow and quiver, the garb - “Loki’s creature!” She spits as she steps forward.

The thief grins, in a manner most familiar; “Not a creature, and not his!” before he vaults over their heads in a lightning quick move.

And thus begins a chase to be immortalized in song. Of course as far as Sif is concerned this is Lady Sif and the Warriors Three hunting down a sly thief and deceiver; not the noble Hawkeye on a dangerous quest to restore his beloved Son of Coul.

****************************************************************************************

Clint swears as he reaches for a grappling arrow, feet hitting the granite-like material of the walkway. He’s 30.2 meters away from the large arched window, strong but not strong enough to keep him from crashing through to freedom, or at least temporary escape.

He knows his pursuers, and he knows he’s fucked. It took a Hulkbuster arrow to bring down Volstagg, the adamantine piercing through armor as if it were green skin, the sedative enough for maybe, maybe ten minutes. He was really lucky the one with the moustache is sticking with the big guy or else he would be even more fucked.

There’s the window and - fuck!

He’s face to face with Blondie. Fandral his mind supplies from the mission reports at Puerto Antigua.

Fuck!

He’s in luck - again they don’t expect acrobatics and he leaps up, his feet striking off the wall and propelling him past; landing on stone jars his bones as he takes off in a sprint, heart pounding in his ears if he can only - reach - the -

The window shatters in a glittering shower of colored glass and Sif is in front of him.

Clint knows he’s trapped. And from there, he goes down embarrassingly quickly.

The last thing he is aware of before unconsciousness claims him is the knowledge he’s failed. Phil...

 

***************************

The Queen of Asgard is regal and wise, but when it comes to her sons - yes, sons - she is still a mother; therefore, when word comes to her that Loki has somehow sent a bespelled minion to the vault she sighs deeply.

She makes her way to the healers’ chambers, where the mortal lies abed. He is still pale, the healing stones heavy on his chest and belly; Sif’s blade was merciless and swift. But the Lady and the Warriors Three knew better than to simply slay, when this is a plot of Loki’s.

Frigga approaches, and blue eyes fly open; the mortal gasps deeply and tries to sit up, to vault out of the bed but the stones hold him down, not unlike the weight of Mjolnir upon Loki’s chest on the Bifrost. Only, these are not Uru metal - but it is not needed to hold a mortal at bay even if he is such a fine specimen, all corded muscle and coiled strength.

“Fear not, mortal,” she says softly as she reaches out to lay her hand upon his brow. His ears are clear and bright, no visible injury upon him but she knows him - The man with the eyes of a Hawk, one of Thor’s valiant companions. Greatest marksman on Midgard, bespelled by Loki for his scheme.

Frigga closes her eyes and frowns. She can feel no _seid_ when her senses brush against him, barely a trace of the hold her wayward son has had upon the archer. This is no bespellment, no bond wrought of magic and trickery. For reasons she cannot comprehend, Hawkeye has come after the scepter out of his own volition.

Not for himself, that much is clear as Frigga steps back, opening her eyes and letting them run over his prone body one more time. She can taste the _seid_ that still clings to him, the familiar flavor of Loki’s tricks bitter on her lips. It’s not magic of binding, but summoning. Is it the threat of banishment from Midgard that has the archer acting as Loki’s pawn? No, it is something else...

She is wise but not all-knowing.She could, were she willing, rip the knowledge from his mind but she knows this without a doubt: Hawkeye has already suffered much. Every inch of his body is etched with as much pain as it is resilience, and the same must be said for the mind that flits under her gentle touch like his namesake.

Frigga runs a gentle hand over the archer’s face, over his neck and shoulder, to rest on his heart. So much heart, Loki had spoken, and she can see that. Her hand wanders, over arms well-formed and strong; the weight of his bows is immense to mortals, yet to him they bend like a willing lover.

She can feel him tense under her touch and his lips part, pink tongue flicking out to moisten them before he speaks. “Look, Lady, that hand goes any lower and you gotta buy me dinner first.”

****

Clint isn’t particularly proud of his comeback but fuck, he can’t move and he is pretty sure that’s Thor and Loki’s _mom_ staring at him like he’s a piece of meat, or possibly a new lapdog while touching him far too gently.

_Fuck._

He’s pretty sure he should be dead after the wound Sif gave him, but he also remembers the way Selvig’s wounds had closed up when Thor had sprinkled him with some sort of fairy dust; it doesn’t take a genius to realize that he’s been healed with alien tech and held immobile in the same way. He feels a bit banged up, a lot grimy but not like he got gored with a sword.

His fingers twitch as Frigga - it has to be, no one’s that regal without being a HBIC, just look at Pepper Potts - steps back, raising her eyebrows. Clint braces himself, preparing for pain. He’s a captive; he knows how this one goes. Even when you’re held by the good guys.

 _Especially_ when you’re held by the good guys.

But the slap doesn’t come and the awkward moment stretches out until Frigga turns on her heel, cheeks aflame and Clint finds himself pulled off the table by burly guards. _Now for the fun and games!_

“Careful with the goods, Viking Barbie,” he grunts when the blonde woman grabs him roughly by the shoulder; he doesn’t get the expected punch, merely a withering glare while the guard he’s dubbing Ken brings forth something that looks disturbingly much like the muzzle Thor procured for Loki back on earth.

For all he knows it’s the same one; He doesn’t fight when his head is yanked back by the hair and his jaw forced open, heavy metal pressing on his tongue nearly deep enough to choke.

He doesn’t give them the satisfaction of stumbling, of letting them drag him on the ground like an animal carcass as he’s taken out of the infirmary.

When he is shoved through a door he does stumble; he lands straight at Loki’s feet.

And that’s when the knowledge of just how deeply he has failed sets in.

******************************************************************

Loki knows the moment the doorway begins to shimmer that Barton has failed. He stands, facing the door with all the dignity he can muster. And being Loki, being comparable to a bag of cats, that is a lot. (Nothing is to be said about napping in the sunlight or flopping around like a rag doll at this juncture.)

A pair of guards shoves Barton in and the archer stumbles; Loki does not move to halt his fall, but as soon as the portal shimmers shut - _curse the knowledge that nothing, not even air or a thought will pass through it from this side!_ \- he moves, kneeling next to Barton.

Chained, gagged, bruised and battered - they’ve delivered Barton back to him gift-wrapped in signs of failure meant to cow him, meant to show him the futility of struggle. He doubts they have interrogated him; when the blue eyes open they are sharp and unmuddled by magic.

“You poor bird,” he murmurs as he pulls Clint close, fingers brushing against the edge of the gag.

He stands, lifting the archer as if he were but a feather, carrying him over to the alcove where a bed is laid with soft furs and silks. Barton groans into the gag as he is placed upon them, and Loki’s fingers are swift as he begins to undo it. There are no spells on it, only complicated latches and binds that are but a moment’s work for him.

Barton spits the gag out, another groan escaping his lips. “That thing is foul,” he says, “Sorry for letting Thor put it on you.”

Indeed it is a foul device and Loki’s jaw aches in memory. Anger flashes through him, blue-cold and dangerous.

He could clean up Barton with a thought, but he feels the need to - he is not sure. It is because of him that Barton is here, wounded, treated like a dog by the lofty grace of Asgard. But instead he summons a basin of water and a cloth as soft as a whisper and begins to clean the flakes of dried blood off the archer’s face.

****

“He’s been hawk-napped.” Tony says with a frown. “According to Jarvis he was in his room and then poof, gone! With some weird energy readings afterwards.”

Steve sighs and rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “And we’re sure he didn’t just disappear and Jarvis is not... mistaken?”

“He’s Jarvis. He does not make mistakes.”

Whatever Steve is about to say is forgotten when the door slams open and Natasha strides in, a frown on her face. “His bow is gone.”

When it becomes evident that Natasha is convinced that Clint has taken some sort of a dangerous, suicidal mission on himself - because he has done all his preparations - and Tony is convinced Clint is kidnapped, things are looking convoluted and Steve thinks this might just end up giving him a headache.

It’s not until Brice steps into the room, innocently asking Tony where he’d gotten those new Einstein-Rosen trace readings from that all hell breaks loose.

Because to all of them there is only one answer.

Loki.

“Thor! Get your godly ass in here, your brother’s hawk-napped Clint!”

Steve does not want to contemplate the alternative.

None of them do.

 

******************

Clint is exhausted and weary to the bone, the marrow steeped in lead. His eyes are closed and he fights back the urge to make a happy, satisfied noise when the soft cloth swipes over his brow.

He should not enjoy this. Should not enjoy Loki’s deft fingers, should not be zeroing on the feel of another holding him, cradling him - he should man the fuck up and face the howling emptiness of failure and loss and pain that’s slowly building at the pit of his stomach, a blinding star collapsing into itself.

_Phil_

He failed. He had his chance to save Phil and he failed, he’s fucked everything up and Phil is gone, gone... and it’s all his fault.

_Phil_

Clint can feel it building up, can feel the emptiness creeping up, up and away, swirling in his heart to take over everything. He tastes it, he’s choking on it, he’s balancing on the edge of a howling void and no acrobat training in the world is going to keep him from falling.

_Oh God Phil_

The first violent sob that wracks through his body still takes him by surprise.

Once he starts crying he can’t stop; that is one of the many reasons Clint hides his feelings, hides it all away, deep, deep inside... and now there is a shatterpoint, everything pouring out in a gushing flood.

He’s failed Phil, he’s failed Nat, he’s failed everyone. He always does. The knowledge, heavy and asphyxiating wells up inside him, engulfing him. Clint knows, deep inside, in his bones that this is all his fault, all of it- he’s never good enough, no matter what. He’s fucked-up, wrong and bad and a failure.

He chokes on the knowledge that his father was right, that Barney was right. Knowing he's failed and fucked up everything because he's not good enough, not worth it... he’s useless, he’s worthless, never been good enough, never been enough it for Phil and he would have left Clint anyway just like Tasha did...

Oh god Tasha what will she think? Clint gasps for air, pressing his face even closer to Loki’s chest and just when did he become enveloped in those strong arms? There is a hand in his hair, gentle but firm as another shudder tears through him.

Tasha will know he failed her, that despite what she did, despite her risking her life to bring him back it was for naught because he’s here, he’s Loki’s again and he’s never been worthy of her, worthy of her devotion. He failed her just as surely as he failed Phil, as he failed Loki... He looks up, his face red and wet with tears.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out the words between gulps of air, “S-sorry...”

Clint falls apart.

***

Loki has no idea what to do when Barton begins to weep openly - brokenly.

There are tears and there is oh heavens _snot_ and Barton just won’t stop _shaking…_

He is like a frightened animal and Loki treats him thus; fighting the instinctive urge to push him away, to cut with words to make his misery complete. His arms wrap around the archer’s heaving shoulders and he cards a careful hand through soft blond hair, making soft, soothing noises. 

It is not dignified in the least but he does not know what else to do; he cannot afford for Barton to fall apart completely, to lose his asset and only path to freedom to malaise and heartbreak. 

“Shh,” he murmurs as he feels tears soak into the fabric of his tunic, “Don’t fret.” 

He doesn’t use words, just simple noises - indeed Barton is not acting like a man, but a broken thing, a mortal in pain and Loki can feel the frustration and anger growing inside him. He is Loki. He is not helpless and... confused at the face of a mere mortal’s emotional outbursts, with tears and... ugh, _snot_. Seriously that was just _gross_. He is not squeamish, indeed it is not only his brother... Not only Thor who has emerged from battle covered head to toe in gore and worse, but this is - this is infinitesimally worse. 

Loki meets Barton’s red-rimmed eyes when the archer pulls back just enough to raise his head. His face is wet and wrecked, his lips red as he speaks almost too quietly for even Loki to hear. 

An apology. 

Loki blinks. This is - not what he expected. For Barton to feel remorse for his failure and to ask for forgiveness, as if this were truly done for him and not simply for the sake of the Son of Coul... Bitterness wells up at him; he wants to call Barton weak and pathetic, to cast him aside like the broken toy he is, a failure - and yet, he cannot. It is not the silver thread of the curse upon him that stills his silver tongue; it is something else, something he cannot define and the sheer ineffability of it is maddening. 

“Don’t,” he hisses harshly, hand curling in Barton’s hair, yanking harshly. “Do not apologize to me, Hawkeye!” 

_*****_

The sudden yank in his hair jolts Clint out of the painful haze; his eyes are wide as he gasps for air, breathing harshly. The sobs cease even if his eyes are still wet with heavy tears as he stares Loki in the eye. There is something in there he cannot name, something alien and terrible but the arm around him is warm and solid - 

_Don’t apologize to me, Clint._

__Oh god Phil -_ _

Clint closes his eyes, unable to bear it. Unable to bear the guilt, the memory - Loki’s grip tightens and he _keens_ , an animal sound raw in his throat as he tilts his head forward, his scalp burning in a mixture of too-familiar pleasure-pain. 

Loki hisses something he can’t make out and he can’t help it, the urge to _make it go away_ is too strong; he leans forward craning his neck and his lips meet Loki’s in a clumsy, desperate kiss. 

He won’t beg with words. 

For what feels like an eternity Loki’s lips are tense with surprise against his but then the god growls and pulls away, hand still tight in Clint’s hair. 

Clint’s eyes fly open, oh god what did he just do how could he be so fucking stupid how could he think Loki would - could ever want him after all his failures, after seeing him so weak and pathetic and broken... he tries to speak, to apologize but his tongue is thick in his mouth and his lips tremble, words refusing to form. 

“You’re disgusting,” Loki hisses, and Clint bows his head. He knows it, he knows he’s fucked up, knows he’s not good enough. Stupid useless worthless whore who’s - 

There is a feeling of _something_ passing over him and suddenly his face is tingling, the salt of his tears gone, his skin no longer tight and raw. 

“Better,” he hears Loki murmur and then the hand in his hair grips him by the jaw and his face is tilted up, brought close to Loki’s. His eyes flutter open, a breathless hesitation swiftly building inside him. 

“If this is what you need, Hawkeye, then so be it.” Loki’s words should be ominous but they are not. 

When their lips meet again Clint is filled with indescribable relief. 

_*********************************************************************************_

Barton is pliant and begging under his touch, his need palpable as he opens up under Loki’s lips. If this is what the mortal needs, to offer himself up - then so be it. Who is he to question? He’s seen this in mortals before, in their sagas of ordinary people they broadcast out. Whoever invented the so called reality TV was a mastermind - 

Loki gasps, losing his trail of thought when Barton’s lips ghost over the pulse in his throat, hot and wet and hungry. Yes, he can grant this to the archer he thinks as his hand tightens in the blond hair, it shall be no hardship at all. 

_**_

So it goes like this: Tony gets Thor to transport all the Avengers to Asgard. With Daddy Odin able to control the Tesseract, it is easy enough even if it feels like the worst hung-over rollercoaster ride EVER. 

They’re all in full gear, well, except for Bruce who is decidedly not green, but he is wearing some rather nice clothes, underneath which he’s got on what Tony has proudly dubbed Starkpants, except Bruce refuses to use that name. 

State of the art microfiber enhanced with nanites, they should keep Bruce’s modesty intact even when the Hulk makes an appearance, Not that they are expecting the Hulk to do so while in Asgard, but if that is the case, well, Tony is glad that even if Thor is the mightiest of the lot, the Asgardians in general still pack one hell of a punch. 

Contrary to the popular belief, Tony Stark is not a walking diplomatic incident. He knows how to behave … sometimes… and as far as he is concerned no one but Pepper thinks Aruba was his fault anyway. Besides, he would never do that to a chicken. So he smiles and nods his way through the pomp and circumstance, till they are alone. 

“So what now?” he asks Thor, but he is interrupted when a woman strides into the big-ass antechamber they’re standing around in, and who smiles when she sees Thor. 

“Thor! You have returned!” She, too, has the booming voice down pat, or maybe it’s the acoustics; everything’s out of proportion just enough to be disconcerting to his engineer’s eye. 

“Lady Sif!” and yeah, on his home turf Thor is even louder, not bothering to even try for an inside voice. Tony winces and he watches the two of them embrace; it’s a total bro hug, despite the fact that Xena here lingers just a tiny bit. 

“Where are the Warriors Three? I would wish them to meet the Mighty Avengers!” 

Sif’s expression darkens. “Volstagg is recovering, Hogun and Fandral at his bedside. A most foul poison was unleashed on him by Loki’s creature!” 

Shit. Loki’s creature. Poison. One missing master assassin. You don’t have to be a super genius, which he is thank you very much, to put two and two together to get the perfect shitstorm. 

And he knows he’s not the only one who’s put the pieces together, beside him, Steve’s tensing up in preparation for - something. 

“Loki’s creature?!” Thor, again, booms his question. It is like watching a fucking play, all grand gestures, loud voices and really fucking ridiculous costumes. 

“Barton? Blond, snarky, ass...hole?” Tony butts in, stepping forward, replacing an accurate epithet with an insult at the last moment. “With a bow?” Come to think of it, Barton and his love of medieval weaponry would fit right in here. 

Sif’s eyes widen. “You know the archer? “ She demands, turning towards Tony. “You know this foul thief?” 

“Why are you calling him a thief?” Tony asks, wishing he didn’t know the answer. 

“He broke into the vault of Odin to do Loki’s bidding!” 

Shit. But it couldn’t be the Tesseract, not if it had been used to transport them here. “What did he take?” 

“He tried to get the scepter of Discord” Sif’s voice is full of scorn. 

“He didn’t get in?” 

Sif shifts uncomfortably. “He was halted after he tried to escape.” 

Sudden dread, cold as arctic suddenly takes him over. “Halted?” 

When Sif says she put a blade in the archer’s belly, Tony knows it’s already too late. 

He tries anyway, attempting to grab Natasha before the 145 pound ball of redheaded Russian fury descends on the unsuspecting war goddess. 

Unfortunately Steve has had the exact same idea and Tony’s attempt at restraining Natasha fails utterly; he slams into Steve, bringing the super-solider down in a clatter of armor and shield and a tangle of limbs. From where he ends up flat on his ass, Steve half on top of him and Christ almighty how the fuck can they be so clumsy, he has a perfect view on what happens next. 

As far as Tony’s concerned, this? This just made the top five hottest things he’s ever seen in his life and he’s seen a lot. And definitely also in the top five of the scariest because fuck, he can’t even see them move and then there’s Natasha’s arm around Sif’s throat, blade at her jugular, position twisted and painful. 

_“Where. Is. He.”_

_*******_

Steve can’t believe they got out of it without bloodshed or a challenge to a duel or any form of a diplomatic incident - although he is not so sure about the last one. Natasha had relented once it became evident that Clint had received medical attention and was fine, although apparently something he had said or done had upset Frigga. 

Thor had looked particularly thunderous at that and Steve didn’t blame him; you did not insult a man’s mother and not expect consequences. 

_They were being led to the chambers that hosted Loki; some form of magical prison that was only accessible from the outside in which he was left to contemplate his fate and deeds. It sounded very much like solitary confinement to Steve and he was fine with that - he’d been worried about some form of brutal Norse torture being enacted on Loki - He’d read about the myths, after all._

Although he did prefer Kalevala over the sagas. He was a Tolkien fan through and through. 

He knows he is trying to distract himself, to steel himself against what they see once the magical doors are worked open, first to give them a view of the rooms beyond, then to let them pass. Steve doesn’t know what he is expecting - Loki’s wrath taken out on Clint, bleeding on the floor... Clint in the role of a servant once again, or something infinitely worse... he just hopes Clint is alive, hopes this is not going to be a clusterfuck to end all... cluster.. 

_Fuck_. 

Steve’s eyes widen and he knows he is blushing like a fire truck as the portal swooshes open to show a view of the room beyond. There is absolutely no mistaking of what exactly is going on there, not when... not when he is seeing more of Clint Barton than he ever wanted to see, and he can’t look away from the cant of his hips, the slick, bitten lips and the eyes.. Clint’s eyes are closed and there is no sound, but Steve knows the agent is making noises when Loki’s’ hand is wrapped around him and... 

Steve closes his eyes hastily, missing the finish. 

This time, they’re ready. Thor ends up sitting on Natasha while it’s Steve and Tony who pull the unresisting Loki away from Clint. 

_*********************************************************************************_

Clint is pretty sure that the part where the Avengers burst in just as he’d come all over himself under Loki’s touch is only second to Budapest when it comes to embarrassment, mortification and situations where “I can explain” is not going to cut it. 

And just like Budapest, he’s tied to a char with a throbbing headache. “Thanks, Tasha,” he murmurs, licking his lips and tasting blood. But he knows she didn’t - couldn’t - wouldn’t cognitively re-calibrate him again. Not when this isn’t the blue glow, isn’t the brainwashing, it’s just him being weak and useless. 

_There’s a soft touch on his hair he would recognize anywhere and he relaxes, minutely. He hadn’t realized just how tense he was, sense-memories of Budapest mixing with all the grief and anger and the knowledge his failure, his weakness has been stripped bare._

“Don’t thank me yet.” Her voice is cool, and her fingers card through his hair softly but purposefully. He knows she could break his neck in a blink and the idea is - comforting. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, lowering his head. Her hand follows, doesn’t tug his hair and he feels disappointed, bereft. 

She does not acknowledge his apology, she never does. “Why?” She asks, her voice hard and her touch gentle. 

Clint licks his lips, still tasting blood and begins hesitantly. With the first dream. Visitation. Thing. The words tumble out, slowly but gaining strength and he talks until his voice is hoarse, tells her everything. 

He knows she doesn't believe him. She would not be the Black Widow if she did. 

And yet, when he falls silent - he does not expect her gentleness. It is not the gentleness of interrogation, of the false friend and fearsome foe he’s seen her inflict on people more than once. It’s more familiar, hauntingly so. 

“What are we going to do with you?” she hums as she kneels in front of the chair, looking him in the eye. “You poor thing.” 

Clint can’t look at her, he closes her eyes. The pity burns him, worse than any fire or acid. He knows he doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve the kindness. 

“I don’t care,” he whispers. “I failed.” 

_***_

What Loki says and what Clint say matches enough that there is no immediate blood-shed and Natasha is almost ready to say Clint is not, in fact, brainwashed. Except she knows better than to think that just because he seems stripped bare of every ounce of his bravado down to a core of honest pain that this is not a ploy. 

Possibly Loki getting back at her for the Helicarrier. 

When Loki finally admits through gritted teeth that he is out to make amends, Thor goes all slack-jawed, then smiles like a thousand toothpaste models. “Brother!” he cries out joyously, and from there on it goes downhill. 

As far as Natasha is concerned, what happens next is a stupid-as plan. Her personal feelings of _oh god, Phil, please be okay_ aside. Because there is no way in which bringing Phil’s body up to Asgard is a good idea, there is no way in which letting Loki anywhere near the Scepter, albeit surrounded by Avengers, the Warriors Three - Volstagg still a bit light on his feet but apparently, willing to go a few rounds with the Hulk to see what mighty warrior the poison was intended to - and a lot of other Asgardians who shall not be named. Frigga and Odin are notably absent, and she knows there is a deeper meaning to it. Possibly to do with the way Clint flinches every time Frigga is mentioned. 

But they are here now, in yet another large hall that’s majestic bordering on ostentatious, and there’s a frisson of anticipation in the air, so strong it’s palpable. 

Natasha tightens her hold of Clint’s wrists as Loki is handed the scepter; when the god steps forward, to where Phil’s supine body is lying on a dais, she feels Clint going still, as still as any kill shot he’s ever taken. 

There is a blue glow, and a gasp. 

_**********’*******************************************************************************_

One moment, he’s sinking into blackness, pain in his body fading even as he knows he’s done everything he can... _not everything.. Clint -_

And then he is gasping for breath, his eyes flicking open. Indescribable pain courses through every fiber of his being, a wrecking, full body spasm that’s keeping him down even as he takes in his surroundings. 

Well, namely the fact that Loki is standing above him with the scepter and the fact that he is definitely no longer on the Helicarrier. When he moves, he is held in place by invisible force that feels something like rubber only not quite. 

“The son of Coul has awoken!” Thor’s voice is unmistakable. 

Phil can move his head just enough to see that the hall is full of people - some appear Asgardian based on their attire and general GQMF-Medieval edition-ess, but he can see the Avengers - Captain America, Stark, Dr. Banner, Natasha - 

_Clint._

He knows he cannot prioritize his archer over everything else, over the display around him that is making absolutely no sense as strong hands take him by the shoulders and move him to an upright position, the rubber-bandage feel quickly evaporating around him. It’s Dr. Banner who is now standing next to him, a look of concern on his face. 

Clint is - Clint is looking at him, eyes cold and blue, no emotion on his face as he turns away. 

Phil closes his eyes, lets Banner poke and prod at him, listens to Captain America welcoming him back and wonders if this is purgatory or hell. 

iThe fact that Stark is trying to give him a hug while still in armor points to the latter. 

As does the fact that when Loki goes, so does Clint. 

_****_

Loki finds the fact that Barton follows him to be strange, but understandable. For all the depth of his feelings, the archer is not a man prone to public displays of affection and would surely prefer to have his true reunion in private. 

And, of course, there IS the fact that technically Barton, too, is at the mercy of Odin’s good justice. With the whole invading the vault, assaulting the guards, and battling the Warriors Three bit. 

So Loki does not dwell upon it. Indeed, the thought of spending a few more hours in the company of the archer before he is again cast into a void of loneliness is... comforting.  
  
Not that he would ever admit to such a thing. But yes, he will take comfort in the company of his archer. 

It _is_ a surprise that once they are alone again, Barton immediately moves close, his lips pliant as they seek Loki’s. It is easy, damnably easy to let himself respond, to claim, to let that sweet warmth chase away the chill on his skin. 

He knows he should deny the archer; this does not seem like a wise course of action to embark upon just before his reunion, but it is so deeply satisfying to know that this is how Barton wishes to bid farewell - let himself be spread open, be marked, give himself over one more time. 

Loki cares not for strange human notions and habits as he bites into the flesh of Barton’s neck, drawing forth a sharp gasp. The skin under his lips is warm and salty as he traces arcane patterns upon it, his long fingers nimbly working the closures of Barton’s clothes. 

This time, he will have what he is offered, Avengers interrupting be damned. 

_******_

When it’s finally over, Clint slumps into Loki’s embrace like a rubber doll - limp, wet and aching all over in a good way for the first time in what seems like forever. 

He’s not thinking, not any more, his mind a hazy blur of touch-taste-feel and what little thought he has left is full of gratitude as he slips into deep sleep, unbidden. 

Clint dreams. 

_The bullets grazed his side and knee; every step jars both painfully as he runs down the Nuselske schody - he’s got another fifty meters to go before he hits the bottom. There it’s a sharp right, another hundred and fifty meters of feet pounding pavement, dodging parked cars hoping his pursuers don’t get a clear line for a shot._

_Clint banks around a corner to the left, then another - the wall to his right is low enough for him to get over and the world goes white for a moment as his side stretches with the movement._

_He rolls to his feet quickly, kicking over a trash can in the process. The back door to the restaurant is open just as it should be and he dashes through, dodging staff and patrons both as the well-dressed people of Prague raise their voices in alarm._

_Out of the door, up the steps to street level - a tram blares past and it cuts off the pursuers just long enough for him to make it to the other side of Belehdraska._

_The entrance to one of the various passageways into the park is right there - he knows he could cut through the trees but he doesn’t dare, not in the dark - not with the pain lancing through his busted ankle with every step._

“ETA at extraction point D?” 

_Coulson’s voice is steady in his ear and Clint gasps for enough breath to answer as he glances over his shoulder. He can see one of the HYDRA goons and he swears under his breath before answering. “One forty, sir.” This has already gone pear shaped more than once but he’s got Coulson looking out for him, with plans within plans and he knows he’s gonna make it if he can just get up to the bridge -_

“Affirmative.” 

_Gravel and dirt crunch under his boots as he rushes through the darkness; soon they give way to pavement and it takes a moment to orient himself. The Nuselsky bridge is at his 10 o’clock, 45 meters away and he is making it just on time._

_He dashes along the chain link fence of through the mostly-vacant parking lot, taking cover with the cars as he approaches the road almost devoid of traffic; he can hear the familiar blue sedan approach and grins. They’ve made it._

_Fifteen more meters. Duck through the bushes, branches sweeping at his face. Visual confirmation. Four steps up to the sidewalk and the car is slowing; he can see Coulson at the wheel and the back seat, door swinging open. There is a shout behind him just as he dives forward into the car and there’s a burst of pain -_

_He comes to in the safe house. It’s not the original one on Fricova but the tertiary one, out in Praha 6; he can tell from the stupid-ass wallpaper and the fact that there’s no tremble of train tracks outside..._

_“Thirsty?”_

_Of course Coulson knows he is awake. Clint nods blearily and does not try to sit up as he catalogues the current pains and aches in his body. There’s morphine or something else in his system, a faint haze over everything as he twitches his leg and feels a twinge in both his knee and his ankle. Ligament damage, definitely, but doesn’t feel broken. His side is still painful, but he doesn’t think there are any stitches, and his mouth tastes like he’s been chewing on old socks. Woolen socks._

_There’s an ache in his back, too - but it’s not a bullet wound, it’s something else..._

_Coulson comes into his line of sight, holding a white plastic cup. Clint leans into his touch as he helps Clint up, an arm under his shoulders, just enough that he won’t choke on the water._

_“Careful,” Coulson admonishes when Clint drinks greedily._

__

Clint turns his head, opens his now less parched lips to say thank you - and stills. Coulson’s... Phil’s eyes are open and vulnerable, more so than he’s ever seen them. He tries to say something, anything, but the words just will not come -

_And then Phil is kissing him. Softly. gently._

_Clint moans when Phil pulls back, blinking. “Fuck, Barton, I’m sorry, I shouldn't have... “_

_He doesn’t care. His hand shoots out, grasps the back of Phil’s neck and pulls him into another kiss._

_He is no longer hurting and the kiss deepens, hungry and possessive and Clint whimpers. He’s thinking this is not how it went, _remembering the hesitancy, the breaking apart, stammering about tranquilizers and adrenaline and sleep deprivation and the surge together - it had not been_ this._

_Clint remembers not believing it could be happening, that there was no way Phil - amazing, deadly, competent, classy Phil could ever see him as anything more than an asset, a friend at best - he remembers joy swelling up in him at the thought that he had a chance at this, that he could maybe just for once not fuck up everything -_

_He doesn’t remember this, doesn’t remember being pinned down in that safe house in Prague, don’t remember Phil like this, lips hungry and desperate and so sure as they claim his, but he doesn’t care._

_“Phil,” he gasps into the kiss, nails digging into Phil’s shoulders, “Oh god, Phil - “_

Clint is woken by a soft touch on his shoulder. His eyes fly open with a gasp, only to see Loki with an inscrutable look on his face.

“Your lover sends for you, Agent Barton.”

 

**********************************************************************************’

It seems like forever before Phil has the chance to ask Natasha - alone - about Clint.

The look on her face is not reassuring at all. “From what we can tell, he is no longer brainwashed.”

“Are you certain?” he asks, ignoring the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It has nothing to do with the fact that only scant hours ago there was a gaping hole through his chest, which he is very carefully not thinking about, and everything to do with what Natasha is saying.

“As certain as we can be.” Natasha’s voice is flat. “Based upon what the Asgardians say and my own interrogation.”

Interrogation. Not questioning.

Phil closes his eyes, weariness settling on him. This is the day he has been quietly afraid of for a very long time, more so since he and Clint became involved: that SHIELD would no longer be enough for him, that - Phil would no longer be enough for him.

Phil Coulson is a man with a very firm grasp of reality, and he is not afraid to turn his gaze upon himself. He knows his strengths and he knows his weaknesses, and he knows that in comparison to Loki - and how fucked up is this particular thought - he is an aging mortal with a fondness for reality TV and sleek suits.

After an awkward silence that seems to stretch for an eternity, he opens his eyes and looks at Natasha. “I’d like to speak to him.”

_I’d like to say goodbye._

*******************************************************************************’

Clint doesn’t give the Viking Barbie Death Squad the satisfaction of stumbling as they march him through the corridors to where Phil... Coulson is waiting for him. He squares his shoulders, showing none of the vulnerability he feels; he feels almost as if he _had_ been dragged out of bed buck-ass naked by the Barbies, which seemed to be what they’d been pretty intent on doing before Loki did his mojo and wham, Clint has magically tailored clothes.

Granted, they’re not his uniform, but at least they’re not Asgardian. He knows he would never hear the end of the Robin Hood jokes from -

He cuts the thought short before the pain can dig any deeper into his soul.

Clint tries to concentrate on keeping his wits around him, calculating distance and time and location - he thinks they’re still on the same level but elevated slightly, forty degrees north - hey, lots of planets have a north! - and somewhere between a hundred and hundred and twenty meters away. The fact that everything is off-scale is throwing him far more than it should and he hates it, but it works. He concentrates on the feeling of unease and trying to wrap his mind around it to distract himself from -

There’s a hand the size of a dinner plate on his back and he is unceremoniously shoved into a room, the heavy door slamming shut behind him with the finality of a coffin lid.

Phil.

“Agent Barton.” Phil’s... Coulson’s voice is flat and affectionless, yet pleasant. The public voice.

“Sir.”

***

Phil does not flinch at the sound of Clint’s voice, so brittle and dark. Clint is standing before him with his head held up high, his eyes guarded but not glazed over with blue. He is out of uniform, still in tac gear but not SHIELD issue. Something of Loki’s then.

Phil is infinitely glad that Natasha had the foresight to bring him a suit. He doesn’t know how he would feel were he not wearing his particular brand of armor.

He takes care not to inhale too deeply and noticeably; he knows which regulations apply to this situation, well, in theory anyway. It’s not certain if Clint... Barton deciding to go with Loki counts as foreign power or hostile organization but he knows he can’t dawdle.

The silence stretches on, foreboding and awkward. He knows he should speak, he knows he should be the one to initiate this, to make sure that Barton is not under undue influence -

Natasha’s words echo in his head. _We walked in on them, intimate. Captain Rogers saw far more of Barton than he’d ever want to._

Phil fights the urge to swallow as he speaks. “Talk to me.”

Barton tenses visibly, the line of his jaw tightening as his shoulders hunch the tiniest bit. “Don’t know what you want me to say, sir.”

_That you’re okay. That you’re no longer compromised. That you’re happy. That you asked for those teeth marks on your neck._

Phil kind of hates himself for how much his attention is drawn to the marks on Barton’s skin, his disheveled hair and the loose-limbedness that’s evaporating under the tension. It’s blatantly clear what he’d been up to just before coming here and the jealousy churning inside him makes Phil sick.

He can’t keep his nostrils from flaring or the harshness from his voice. “Give me a sit rep, Barton.” 

He instantly regrets his tone as soon as the words hang in the air.

Barton’s expression darkens. “No longer compromised, sir.”

“Then you were free from duress when you attempted the theft of a dangerous artifact under the orders of a known interplanetary war criminal."

Inside, Phil cringes at the statement but it does not show in his voice on his face. He had not meant to say it like that.. Natasha’s report that the scepter Barton tried to steal was capable of reviving him - a fact, taking into account that he is alive and breathing right now. He wants to believe that this was why Clint went on a mad quest on _another world_ , not a fucked-up ,misjudged pledge towards the alien who stabbed Phil in the back - _don’t think about it!_ \- and nearly killed him.

He should say no more. He knows he should not. But he can't stop himself from adding, "And equally free of duress when you chose to engage in a sexual relationship with the man who abducted you?" And this is the one question he doesn’t want to ask because no matter what the answer he fears it the most.

“Yes, sir.” Barton’s voice has no inflection.

Phil fights the urge to lower his head to his hands. Instead, his eyes zero on the marks on Barton’s neck, his focus unmistakable. “And this is what you want.” He barely keeps his emotions out of his voice, just as flat as Barton’s. He wants to, needs to know that it’s something Clint wants, something that is - good for him.

“Yes, sir.” Clint’s expression softens, just for a brief moment.

He closes his eyes and nods slowly. “Very well. You’re dismissed.”

**

Clint _does_ stumble when the Barbies drag him away again; He notes with some concern that they’re heading off in a wrong direction, not towards Loki’s rooms.

He can’t bring himself to care.

Phil knows what he’s done, how badly he’s failed, how he’s betrayed everything. Knows that he’s thrown himself at Loki and fucked it all up once again. 

Clint can’t breathe, not with the guilt and the knowledge that this is exactly what he had to expect, what he deserves welling up within. He knows it’s a fundamental flaw in him. How selfish he is, how much he _wants -_

He knows Phil is disgusted with him, probably disgusted with himself for wasting time on Clint, when he should’ve known better. He should’ve known better, Clint should’ve known better than to think this would work out, that he could be worth Phil’s attention. That he’d be worth keeping, this time.

But he never is.

Clint has never loved anyone the way he loves Phil, all stupid and giddy and - trusting. And he can’t help it, it fucking hurts, to know he’s lost it and it was all his fault for not keeping his mouth shut, for not keeping his legs closed, for doing all the same stupid, stupid things again and again.

After Prague - fuck, after Prague, they’d been so fucking tense, dancing around each other again, for months and months until it happened again - until Clint made another stupid decision and kissed Phil - and it had gone from there, and it had felt so good, so natural to go from watching bad TV together to stumbling into the bedroom together, to -

And he fucked it all up. He stumbles again and swears, trying to not to show his discomfort. He can’t let them see how fucked up he is, how badly he’s fucked up, he -

It burns, the knowledge that for so long - too long - when he’s fucked up, he’s gone to Phil, and he’s trusted Phil to find a way to make it all right _somehow_ , to make sure they get home all right but now, this? The fact that he’s fucked up the one good thing he’s ever had in his life..

He can’t deal.

Clint doesn’t resist when he is pushed into a room; the door clangs shut behind him and he doesn’t get up from the floor.

************************************************************************************

It is a wonder that Stark has not started an interplanetary diplomatic incident yet. It is probably a matter of time, Natasha reflects, as she strides towards the rooms she knows they took Clint. It’s only prudent to separate them now, after - well.

She knows Phil has asked to be brought to Loki and wishes she could be the fly on the wall there, but Phil’s made it clear that this is private - and she will respect that. So instead, she will leave babysitting Stark and Rogers to Banner, and heads out to Clint.

All the better to plot out the inevitable jailbreak, if things get difficult later on. Thor has assured them that Clint will not be subjected to “undue punishment” but she is not willing to trust Odin or the rest of them.

The guards do not hesitate to allow her entry; apparently, the tale of her “epic duel” with Sif has already spread, unfortunately.

When the door opens and she sees Clint lying prone on the floor, she does not hesitate. She enters, the door clanging shut loudly as she crouches next to him. He appears uninjured, save for bite marks she recognizes as Loki’s and tear tracks on his face.

She knows better than to touch him.

“Clint?” she asks, her voice soft but firm.

Clint lifts his head minutely, neck straining to turn to face her, his eyes blinking open to show how red they are. “Tasha?”

“Yes. Talk to me?”

She immediately realizes it’s the wrong choice of words as Clint flinches violently and twitched away from her. She feels a stab of anger and something she refuses to call fear. What happened between Clint and Phil to bring this on? She knows Phil wouldn’t...

Would he?

For a split second, Natasha considers. Taking into account the trauma of being stabbed and dying only scant hours ago by his reckoning, she must consider the possibility...

“Tell me what happened,” she says as she reaches out to lay a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “Everything.”

**

Loki is not pacing nervously. He is Loki, and he is neither nervous nor prone to displays of such futile behavior if he were.

No, he is simply... stretching his legs across the small expanse of the room, his hands clasped behind his back as he waits. He is not certain what it is that he waits for - he knows it is unlikely that anyone will come to him for a long, long time, but he cannot help but wish that Barton will come back to bid him farewell now that he has succeeded in what is the first step on his lonely road to amends. A lonely road, he knows, that will lead him back to his rightful place and lull all those fools into believing that he would -

His train of thought is disrupted by the familiar feeling of the door beginning to open. The currents of _seid_ shift first, and he pauses on his tracks, turning to face the door.

It comes as a surprise that the man facing him through the barrier is not Barton, but the Son of Coul.

Loki sneers. He is not entirely sure why the agent is here, clad in an impeccable Midgardian garment the same way he had been upon the airship. His expression betrays nothing, an unbelievable rarity in a human - the impassive visage does not crack even as the man approaches, leaving the safety of the barrier. Fool.

“Come to gloat, Agent Coulson?” He asks, his patience worn too thin for waiting games. He knows what is to come - humans are so predictable. Anger, hatred, retribution - not only for the regrettable incident with the spear which he does genuinely feel sorry for; the exquisitely tailored suit that had fit the man like a glove had been ruined completely - but also for Barton, he would imagine. The bitter anger of another having what is yours is well familiar to Loki Liesmith, and he knows he should prepare for a blow, or perhaps worse.

He sees the lines around the agent’s mouth tighten a fraction. “Hardly.”

So it is retribution, then. Loki sighs, resigned. At least the agent will be swift - competence like his does not lend itself to dramatic, overdrawn forms of torture.

Taking into account everything he had done, every insult he has offered to the Son of Coul, it does not take a genius for Loki to discern which form of retribution is being sought here. He slowly raises his hand to his throat and begins to undo the fastenings, wishing to at least spare himself the indignity of having his garments rent from his body.

Loki does not allow himself to smile as he sees the mortal’s nostrils flare, sees the tightening in his jaw. It is not obvious, but Loki is now certain of what is about to happen. Son of Coul had gained his brother’s respect, had he not? Barton described him as flawless diplomat, spoke eloquently of his many good qualities. He would, perhaps, take the issue of mortal dalliance up with Barton but this - this is familiar to Loki, this seeking of a weregild in flesh. An amend for him to make.

His garment falls open and he takes a step back, expectantly. Let it be known that Loki Laufeyson always pays his debts. Like a Lannister, only with a clearly superior colour scheme. And yes, he knows he is avoiding thinking about this, trying to distract himself as he wonders why Stark’s suit is in Lannister colours. 

“What do you think you are doing?” There is no anger in Son of Coul’s voice as he speaks, his head slightly tilted to the side.

“Is it not obvious?” Loki sighs. He does not wish to debase himself, but if that is what is needed...

“No, it is not.”

Loki fights the urge to roll his eyes, to snap out a biting reply about the man’s inadequacies if it is not blatantly obvious what is it that is about to happen. Instead, he lowers his eyes as he shrugs, his sleeves catching at the elbows and leaving his chest and shoulders bare.

“You came seeking weregild,” he says softly. “So you shall have it.”

This gets a reaction - the most he’s seen since he plunged the scepter in the man’s back. Blue eyes widen and the man stiffens, his stance shifting to - defensive?

“That is not why I am here.” the voice is still even, but not fully without emotion. “Please refrain from stripping any further.”

So have mortal sensibilities won, then? Loki tilts his head, a loose strand of hair falling upon his bare skin, the tickling sensation a momentary distraction. “As you wish, Agent Coulson.”

There is a moment of silence that is eventually broken by the Agent clearing his throat, looking Loki in the eye. “I am here because of Barton.”

“But not seeking a weregild?” Loki finds himself confused. For this to be a matter of mortal custom, he would expect a lot more shouting and violence, threats and slurs to be thrown his way - and Barton’s, for the matter.

“No.“ Coulson’s face hardens. “Barton will stay with you. So I am here to make sure - “

Rage wells up in Loki, blood-bright and hot, unexpected. “How dare you?” he spits out, his _seid_ calling up his armour, heedless of the pain it causes in this room. Garbed in green and gold, his horned helm high he stalks towards the agent.

“After everything he has done for you, you would discard him so?”

The agent does not flinch, standing his ground before Loki’s fury. Again. Only this time he is not holding a weapon bastardized of Asgard’s cast-offs. 

“Barton has made his choices clear,” the agent’s voice is calm and collected, but his eyes belay his agitation. But not his fear.

“Choices!” Loki spits, taking another prowling step forward. “What do you know of his choices, Son of Coul?”

Their eyes lock and the air sizzles with the intensity, reacting to the wellspring of emotion on both sides. Loki’s lips are pulled back, teeth bared in a snarl as the nigh-inexplicable rage over Barton washes over him. How dare this fool discard the sacrifices his lover has made? To betray his compatriots, to risk death and worse, just for him?

“Of all the people, _you_ are the one to doubt his devotion?” Loki spits the words out with venom he’s held within too long.

That garners a reaction, finally. “Explain.”

And so Loki tells him. In great detail. He tells the Son of Coul of all his archer has risked, of the cost to his heart of betraying those he called friend, of risking death and worse in breaking into Odin’s vault. Loki tells him of the dreams he has witnessed. “Night after night he dreams of your death by his own hand. Of wielding the knife, of loosing the arrow himself. And you speak of choice, of betrayal!”

Watching the agent’s composure slowly crumble, he goes for the final blow. “He sobbed out your name under my hands.” 

***************************************************************************************

Natasha smells safe.

The thought is fuzzy in Clint’s head as he buries his face in her neck, his shoulders having under her gentle touch. He is not sobbing, he is not, but he is trembling hard, adrenaline and pain a sour taste on his tongue.

Once again, she maneuvers him gently but firmly to spill out all the words that turn into ash on his lips.

“Phil doesn’t want me.”

The truth is bitter on his tongue, and he can feel Natasha stiffening against him, only perceptible to someone who knows her as well as he does. She didn’t want him, either - the pain is still there, but he thought the wound had at least scabbed over if not scarred, because she’s here and she is looking after him but... she’s not keeping him, either.

He remembers getting shitfaced, remembers Phil dragging him out of some dive bar where he’d been about to do highly unadvisable things that would have gotten him kicked out of Shield, probably in the slammer, remembers _Phil_ and words start sticking in his throat anew.

Her grip of him tightens. “What.”

“Don’t make me spell it out, Tasha. Please?”

It’s a role reversal, a goddamn shattered funhouse mirror, to be here with Tasha asking him what is wrong, what happened -and he can’t speak, can’t fucking breathe because all he can think of is Phil’s hands on his shoulders, Phil's voice in his ear telling him that he’s had enough, that they’re gonna leave right now -

Clint chokes on a sob when he remembers how much he doesn’t remember, the hazy images of being dragged into a car, into Phil’s house, bundled on the couch as he choked out words of hatred and self-loathing.

Tasha left him, too - because he wasn’t good enough for her, never had been never would be. And it’s the same with Phil, only with Phil he knows he will never have anything again.

He’s lost his lover, his friend, his partner, his handler - his everything.

Natasha’s grip of him tightens momentarily before he is let go, gently, to fall back to the floor. He gets it, she’ll go away too. He doesn’t open his eyes, only dimly aware of the sound of the door and the movement in the air - someone is here.

“Fix this.”

****

As the door to Loki’s chambers swirls shut behind him, Phil takes a moment to compose himself. He does not let the Asgardian guards see how shaken he still is, but he allows himself a deep inhale and takes a moment to let what just happened sink in.

Loki’s word make terrible sense and Phil wants to kick himself for how utterly wrong he’s misread this situation, how utterly he’s failed Clint. He should have known better than to assume, should not have let his jealousy and anger take over - so many should haves!

There is no hint of his turmoil on his face as he turns to the Asgardian guard leader - he estimates she’s roughly the equivalent of a Lieutenant on Earth - and speaks. “I would like you to take me to Agent Barton.”

She nods, red braids swaying around her face as she turns on her heel and leads the way and he pays attention to the way she moves in her armor, where the weak points are. It’s a familiar distraction, evaluating a potential enemy and analyzing the data to center himself.

Loki’s words echo in his head with each step; he has been told that Loki is incapable of telling a lie but he knows that means nothing when truth is a finer blade than falsehood could ever be. A part of him wonders if this is another ploy, if Loki is twisting everything around to suit his own dark ends but even then... he knows he can’t take the risk of hurting Clint any further.

Another part of him, a dark part he tries to hold at bay, is filled with anger and seething jealousy still: that part of him had wanted to stay longer, to take what Loki had been offering so freely and it makes him sick that he could even think of that - especially now when it has become clear how badly he’s screwed this one up. Clint’s safety and wellbeing is paramount, and he pushes the flash of gut-wrenching emotions at seeing Loki’s’ pale skin far, far down. To be taken out and examined at a later date.

He knows they call him an ice-blooded motherfucker for a reason; he’s walking along the corridor with not a hair out of place, his suit still impeccable and his stride measured He cannot afford to lose control for a moment, cannot afford to let these feelings overwhelm him.

They pause at yet another door: Phil doesn’t have the same spatial awareness Clint does but he has a rough idea of where they are. The door is wood, reinforced with forged metal and creaks upon its hinges as it opens.

His breath catches in his throat when he sees Natasha crouched down on the floor, holding on to Clint’s trembling form.

Their eyes meet, green and blue and he can read implacable fury in her eyes.

She stands swiftly as Phil steps into the room, almost on autopilot. He wants to give all his attention to Clint but cannot, not when she is pinning him with her eyes.

“Fix it.” Her voice is flat and cold like arctic pack ice when she speaks.

He can only nod, as she brushes past him, her feet silent on the slate floor.

“Clint?” he asks hesitantly, stepping closer, fighting the urge to just fall on his knees and gather his hawk in his arms.

He sees Clint stiffen but the archer does not move to acknowledge him, does not lift his head- nothing.

Drawing a deep breath Phil makes a decision; he moves closer, letting his leather shoes deliberately make noise on the stones till he’s standing right next to Clint. The archer’s eyes are closed and his hands are curled into fists, knuckles white as snow.

“Clint,” he repeated softly, crouching down to lay a hand on one tense shoulder. “Look at me, please.”

**

Clint knows he’s lost it, he must’ve hit his head when Natasha dropped him, or maybe he’s dreaming again because it can’t be Phil, it can’t be Phil’s warm, broad hand on his shoulder, cannot be his voice in his ear.

He draws a shuddering breath, shoulders heaving laboriously as he tries to move away, to get away - but the hand resting on his shoulder tightens down, there's a firm grip on his shoulders and Phil’s voice again. _“Look at me.”_

Clint blinks, lashes heavy with salt and turns his head minutely. “Sir,” he whispers, his voice a heavy croak. Not Phil. Coulson. Come here to -

Clint isn’t thinking, even through the haze of pain he can still move like a fucking ninja and he’s twisting away, rolling, coming up in a crouch a few feet away, every muscle poised to flee.

Not that there’s anywhere to flee in this cell.

Coulson is looking at him warily, palms held open and the expression on his face, Jesus Christ, the fucking _expression on his face -_

“Come to let the wounded animal out of its misery, Coulson?” Clint spits,

“No.” Phil’s face still has that same expression, so open, so - fuck, Clint can’t compute, can’t make any sense of this and it hurts. “That is not why I am here.”

“Then why?” Clint doesn’t relax, his eyes searching Coulson's face for clues, for anything - fuck but how that open, unguarded expression can reveal less than his usual blank facade, Clint doesn’t know.

“To - to apologize. I spoke with Loki.”

The words hit Clint like a RPG round in the face; every muscle in his body tenses in anticipation, waiting for more, but fuck he’s never been good at waiting without a weapon in is hands. “So you know now.”

“Yes.”

Clint knows now, what to expect. He closes his eyes, preparing for the torrent of accusations, the loathing to be poured upon him in full force. He knows all the words that will come. Useless. Worthless. Traitor. Whore. Failure. Disappointment. He doesn’t brace for a blow, knows it will just be worse if he does, if he’s driven Coulson that far, made is vaunted control snap. Clint knows it’s not like him, it’s not something Coulson would do but the weight of failure on his shoulders reminds him that he deserves it and worse, just like -

“I’m sorry, Clint.”

If hearing Coulson spoke with Loki was a RPG round in the face, the apology slams into Clint like the Hulk. He doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want to hope that the next words out of Phil’s mouth are not _that I ever thought you could be good enough, could be faithful, could be worth the effort -_

“I should not have not acted so rashly. Judged you so rashly. I - I’m sorry I did not trust you. I’m sorry I did not ask you to explain. I’m sorry I did not understand.”

Every word hits Clint hard; he gasps and his eyes slowly open, looking at Coulson-- at Phil. “Are you fucking serious?” 

Phil nods slowly. “I am. I’m sorry.”

Clint licks his lips, trying to swallow past the lump roughly the size of Brazil in his throat. “You. Are sorry.”

“Yes.”

Clint can’t help it, he laughs. “Christ, you say you’re sorry? When I’m the one who - “ __The one who betrayed you. The one who failed you. The one who cheated on you. The one who -

His train of thought is interrupted when Phil moves towards him, slowly, telegraphing every move carefully. A hand lays on his shoulder, so warm and comforting it makes his breath hitch.

“You were compromised,” Phil says softly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I wasn’t compromised.” Clint argues, fighting the urge to pull back, fighting the urge to surge closer. “Not when - “

“Clint.” Phil’s voice, so firm, so calm, so familiar halts his words. “I am not talking about just the mind control. I don’t - I can’t blame you for things you did when you thought I was gone, for doing what you needed, to do, to be okay.”

Oh god, this can’t be real. This cannot be, this is like every wish he has not dared to make, every hope he’s not allowed to spark.

“I slept with Loki.” And he knows that’s the sticking point. Because this isn’t about - this isn’t about Agent Coulson and Hawkeye, this is about them. About Phil and Clint.

“Yes.” Phil falls silent and there is a shadow in his eyes, and dread starts slowly creeping back up. “I am not going to lie to you, Clint. I am not happy about it but I understand. And I don’t blame you.”

“You should.” Clint’s words hang heavy in the air. “I get it.” and he does, he does get it, knows Phil is sorry he misjudged the situation and doesn’t blame Clint but... that doesn’t mean Phil wants damaged goods.

“Do you?” Phil’s voice lowers a fraction and his eyes get intense; Clint knows that he could not move, not even if he wanted to as Phil’s hand tightens on his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Clint swallows hard. “You say you’re sorry, you don’t blame me but it’s over anyway.”

He can’t look at Phil, can’t see the confirming nod, the tightening of his jaw. His eyes close and he tilts his head away.

 

***

Phil knows he’s not getting through to Clint. “Only if you want it to be,” he whispers, but when his words bring no reaction, no shift of muscle under his hand there is only one thing he can do.

He leans closer, intent on kissing Clint softly but the angle of Clint’s neck throws the teeth marks on his neck into sharp relief; something breaks inside him. His grip on Clint’s shoulder tightens and he yanks the archer to him, bodies colliding hard as their lips meet.

He can _taste_ Loki on Clint’s lips as they fall open under his.

Clint makes this _sound_ that goes straight through Phil, all open and vulnerable and so _needy_ he can’t think; he can only tighten his grip, deepen the kiss and try to convey with touch what his words have failed.

“I’ll always want you;” he pants against Clint’s lips as he pulls back a fraction. “Always.”

He licks his lips, tasting Clint, tasting adrenaline, tasting Loki and growls, he claims Clint’s slack mouth again, the kiss deep and possessive. He wants to eradicate any trace of the god, to only have Clint...

Clint’s hands grip him painfully, an archer’s strength leaving bruises on his arm, his side. Phil groans into this kiss, his hand tightening in Clint’s hair. Clint is so fucking beautiful like this, so needy, so open in a way he’s never been before, it’s intoxicating.

“Phil,” Clint moans as Phil’s lips find his jaw, soft against the faint stubble there. “Oh god Phil... Want you,” he pants, and every word is filled with emotion that makes Phil choke even as his teeth drag against soft skin, “Want you to - to keep me...”

The words draw another growl from Phil and a surge of possessiveness he’s never let himself feel before fills him with heat. He bites down, teeth digging into the marks on Clint’s skin, and he thinks he can still taste Loki there too. 

“Want to,” the words are muffled as he worries the skin between his lips and teeth. “Keep you. Mark you.”

Clint whimpers, his back arching and his body rubbing against Phil’s; the intensity of the reaction startles Phil and he moves to support Clint, to pull him even closer, hold him tighter and he can feel Clint’s hard-on against his thigh as the archer's knees slot neatly around it, and fuck, Clint’s _desperate_ in the way he moves into him...if Phil wasn’t just as hard before, he is now.

“Mine,” Phil growls and bites down hard, teeth breaking skin. He knows how unwise it is the moment he does it but it doesn’t matter, not when Clint _keens_ and his body goes still except for the staccato thrust of his hips as he comes.

It’s a near thing that Phil doesn’t follow, coming in his pants like a teenager on his first date. Instead he inhales sharply, scenting Clint, holding on to him, letting the archer come down from his orgasm as gently as he can. Phil’s hard, achingly so and the urge to do so many wicked things to Clint is there but he pushes it firmly aside as he holds Clint close, kissing his sweaty brow. “Always.”

Somehow, the knock on the door does not surprise him at all.

Phil smiles. 

It’s time to go home.

(The beginning)

**Author's Note:**

> Fic includes Clint initiating sex with Loki when under mind-control and later blaming himself for it, and later sex when he is emotionally compromised but not mind-whammied.


End file.
